Dreaming in Sharp Color
by Ohmystarsandsky
Summary: Ford shouldn't miss him. He does. Ford shouldn't let him into his dreams. He does. Cross-posted on AO3


Ford sits at his workbench.

The table in front of him is laden with blueprints and notes and schematics,

written on parchment,

written in ink,

and some of the papers are yellow with age, harkening back to another time,

to a time _before_ all this.

He tries hard not to remember what it was like before all this.

Logically speaking, it's unhelpful and distracting and detrimental, even, to achieving his current goals, such as keeping the world unscathed and keeping his family together.

Emotionally speaking, it. It would consume him if he let it, those now-broken promises, those now poisoned memories, because he can remember when they weren't poisoned, weren't broken, and he knows if he squeezes his eyes shut tight enough, he can pretend they aren't poisoned, aren't broken, that things never changed and everything is just like it was _before,_ and if he's honest

if he's honest, deep down in the farthest, darkest, most twisted parts of him, in the heart that beats just the same as an animal's, in the ears that wrong of phantom howls, phantom moans, and in the skin that stings euphorically of phantom sweat, deep down in all these, hidden behind his glasses and lab coat and unnecessarily big words,

in these he _wants,_ he _wants_ things to be just as they were before, because it might have been sin, but that sin was _happiness,_ and happiness is something he hasn't had long enough to wrap around his shoulders before or since.

and now it is late, and the candles are burning low, and he hasn't slept in days,

hasn't slept without whiskey in months,

because unaided sleeping implies dreaming and dreaming is like remembering

but more tactile, more real,

and that's the last thing his resolve needs, so he drinks his whiskey straight

before bed and sleeps deep and dreamless.

he tries hard not to remember what it was like before.

But not tonight.

Tonight, with the weight of all that has happened and all that is inevitable, all that will happen,

he is powerless as he feels his eyelids grow heavy,and he gives in

softly with a rueful smile, and allows himself to be cradled from afar by _**hiM**_ ,

 _ **He**_ who by the daylight Ford has no choice but to reject,

but it is night now, and Ford

allows the sweet reprieve of memories he so seldom indulges in

to lull him into dreams tailored to his whims

by the subject of those memories

tailored by the very sin he is so reluctant to indulge in

...

it starts with a young boy

with broken glasses and a brother

and no other friends

which is exactly how it really started

in his flesh and skin and sinew

but it doesn't end

how it really ended

it doesn't end at all

it stays suspended in the time _before_

sometimes the dream shifts

to a different here and now

a temptation so sweet

the taste of it makes him dizzy

where they rule as kings, the two of them,

kings above the chaos,

and his world is destroyed and his family is gone

but it feels so _good,_ to sit next to _**HiM**_

up there on the throne above the hell beneath

singed and scarred and unhinged

but so _anchored_

hand in hand with the _**maN**_ ( _ **DeMOn? goD? maN?**_ ) sitting next to him

and when they kiss up on their thrones it feels just the same

it tastes just the same as it did

as it really did

back then in the seventies, back then in the _before,_

and as his eyes close he is hoping for the seventies to be painted before him

and guiltily he knows

this will be granted him

...

he knows he is dreaming as soon as his eyes open but he doesn't care, the dreamland sunshine is filtering through the window, spilling onto the clean white bedspread that hasn't actually adorned his bed since the _before,_ he had burned it after the _before,_ he couldn't sleep underneath the weight of so many memories, but that doesn't matter now, now light filters through the window and spills onto the bed spread and he sits up, shaking his hair out of his eyes, and across the room sitting on the perch by the light gracing window is _**HiM,**_ and Ford can never quite tell how much is memory and how much is the dream demon himself actually there but Ford can't really bring himself to care, not now, not when reality is a disjointed, lonely painful rabbit hole and _this._

 _this_ is _heaven_ ( _this_ is _heaven this_ is _heaven this_ is _heaven and that probably means Ford_

 _is going to Hell.)_

 _ **hE**_ turns around and Ford's breath catches in his throat because _**He**_ looks. Just. Just like _**He**_ did _before_. Blonde hair falling into _**His**_ left eye haphazardly, _**His**_ right eye heavy lidded, painted in the blue green tones of an inviting forest spring. _**hE**_ is lanky and lean and long and _**HiS**_ skin is sun kissed, not pale, but not aggressively tan, smooth and beautiful, covered only by an old lab coat of Ford's, and _**HiS**_ lips are ruby red and they inspire in Ford such a _need,_ such a _want,_ and it falls from Ford's mouth in a hushed whisper before he can stop it

" _Bill_ ,"

Ford swallows hard, the contentious part of his brain ashamed and scolding him for how obvious, how _awed,_ how _needy_ he sounded but _**He**_ , in spite of this, turned so _**hE**_ was completely facing Ford and quirked those red lips up into _**hiS**_ smirk of a smile, and tomorrow morning Ford knows he'll have to go back to hunting _**HiM**_ down, tomorrow morning he'll feel so guilty that he'll go out to the corner store and buy a full case of energy drinks and several bottles of espresso but right now,

right now none of that matters.

Because _**He**_ is crossing the room now,

and _**hE**_ slinks his way up the bed, over the white bedspread that has been burned in reality, over the white bedspread that is only covering his boxer clad legs, his torso is bare,

and _**hE**_ stops in his prowl, straddling Ford's waist and

and it's too much, and Ford begins to cry.

Bill slides of his lap silently and sits by his side,

wraps _**hiS**_ arms around him and pulls Ford's head down so it rests on _**HiS**_ chest

and as he quietly sobs Bill kisses him,

softly, on the top of his head, and says

" _ **I know, Sixer, I'm sorry."**_

"No," said Ford, lifting his head, sure now, sure by the voice, by the touch, that at least some of what was holding him was the _**maN**_ ( _ **DeMOn? goD? maN?**_ ) himself. "You're not sorry."

Bill hesitated. " _ **Not about your dimension, I suppose, not about what I did, i guess, but I'm sorry about what it did to you. What. What I did to us."**_

Ford doesn't respond, doesn't know how to respond, and so Bill begins to pull away but Ford catches his hand, and in a voice that is now rougned, colored with crying he says

"Stay. Please stay."

He tries to look down but Bill catches his eyes and it's almost too much again, the way _**HiS**_ eyes are mirror ford's own, filled with regret and pain and a glimmer of hope, but it isn't too much, it's just enough, and Ford smiles a small sad smile and leans in to press a chaste kiss to the lips of his only beloved, his betrayer, his muse and his madness

and his smile grows to a grin as _**hE**_ kisses back eagerly,

( it feels just the same

it tastes just the same as it did)

as they fall back on the white bedspread

(that is really only ashes, in real life)

fall in a tangle of limbs and smiles and pants and whispered endearments

Ford allows himself the uncleasnable sin of happiness once more

...

"Do you really think we'll find him in time, Grunkle Ford? He won't show himself to any of us, it's been ages since we had a sighting."

The next morning

Ford sits at his workbench

Dipper sits beside him, studious and naive.

"Bill...he really scares me, Grunkle Ford."he says quietly, his voice catching. "You gotta catch him."

Ford only nods and says not to worry.

he can't bring himself to say anything more.


End file.
